Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. “A young man comes into life asking how best he may place himself,” Ramage had said; “a woman comes into life thinking instinctively how best she may give herself. Full as she was of him, it felt good to shower her kill out of her hair.
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